Forging America: My Campaign Manager is Roosevelt

Chapter 457: Chapter 212: Saints

That was a murder.

But what the woman before him had experienced was another kind of murder.

A slower, crueler murder, one that was impossible to fight back against.

The insurance company saved hundreds of thousands of US dollars in payouts.

Their stock price went up, and the CEO got his year-end bonus.

And Rosa had to pay for her husband’s funeral in installments.

"The priest said that murder is a sin."

Rosa looked up at Luigi.

"I go to church every Sunday. I pray to the Lord, asking for peace of mind."

"But, child."

Rosa pointed to an old television set nearby.

"A few days ago, when I saw that man lying in a pool of blood on the news."

"When I saw your wanted poster on TV."

"I knelt before the statue of the Holy Mother Mary."

"I confessed."

Rosa’s tears streamed down, tracing paths on her weathered face.

"Because in that moment, I didn’t feel any sadness."

"I actually felt happy."

"I actually felt... that it was God’s will."

Luigi put down his soup spoon.

He stood up and walked over to Rosa.

He wanted to hug this woman, but he didn’t dare.

He felt he was covered in blood, unworthy of touching such grief.

"I’m sorry," Luigi said in a low voice.

"No."

Rosa wiped away her tears, stood up, and patted Luigi’s shoulder.

"You did what we didn’t dare to do."

"Eat up. When you’re full, get some sleep."

"It’s safe here."

"Only poor people live here. No one will call the police."

Rosa turned and walked toward the ladder.

"Around here, the police reward money isn’t worth much."

"Hate is what’s valuable."

Rosa went down.

Luigi was left alone in the attic.

He sat at the small, three-legged table, gulping down the chicken soup.

The hot soup flowed into his stomach, chasing away the cold.

He looked up at the surrounding walls.

The red collection notices, the cold claim denial letters, the numbers that represented death and despair—they were all watching him quietly now.

Luigi suddenly understood what the cashier had written.

Welcome to the city of the people.

Luigi lay on the old mattress on the floor.

He stared at a medical debt collection letter on the ceiling.

On the wanted posters, he was an extremely dangerous killer.

But here, in this attic wallpapered with bills,

he was more like the wrathful Jesus who took up a whip and drove the moneylenders and merchants from the Temple.

He closed his eyes.

It was the most peaceful sleep he’d had since he became a fugitive.

...

The air in the apartment’s living room was stale and stuffy.

To evade the infrared detection of police drones, Rosa had shut all the windows and drawn the heavy blackout curtains.

Six or seven people were crammed into the small space, and the oxygen was growing thin.

Luigi Randall sat at the old dining table, holding an empty soup bowl.

Across from him sat a middle-aged man built like an iron tower.

His name was Barney. He was a workshop convener for the Pittsburgh South District Steel Union and a man of immense prestige among the local workers.

The two students, Ben and Chloe, stood nervously by the door.

They knew very well that two college students like them didn’t have the power to protect America’s most wanted fugitive.

In Pittsburgh, to hide someone right under the noses of the police, you had to rely on the organizations that truly controlled the neighborhood’s capillaries.

So Ben contacted the Union.

Barney was in his work clothes, holding a freshly printed wanted poster.

Two younger workers sat around him, the bulges at their waists the insurance they’d brought for the night.

Luigi watched these uninvited guests, his hand quietly slipping into his pocket.

"Don’t be nervous." Rosa brought a pot of hot coffee from the kitchen. She patted Luigi’s shoulder, her tone gentle. "Barney’s one of us."

"He’s the backbone of the Union. When the police tried to forcibly demolish our apartment building, he led the workers to surround the bulldozers for three days and three nights. He even knocked out the police chief’s tooth."

Rosa poured coffee for everyone.

"In this neighborhood, Barney’s word carries more weight than the Mayor’s."

Barney stared at the paper in his hand, noncommittal about Rosa’s introduction.

Printed on the paper was Luigi’s resume—detailed information released by the FBI to facilitate public reporting.

"University of Pennsylvania Wharton School, dual degree in Finance and Statistics, full scholarship recipient."

"Former analyst at a renowned hedge fund."

"Family owns the largest real estate development company in New Jersey."

Barney read through the titles, his brow furrowed as if he were reading hieroglyphics.

He looked up, sizing up the young man before him—in his tattered hoodie and scruffy beard—as if he were an alien.

In Barney’s world, a resume like this usually belonged to the assholes who lived in downtown penthouses, drove Ferraris, and drank two-thousand-US-Dollar bottles of red wine.

It belonged to the Vampires who could fire a thousand workers with the flick of a finger.

"I don’t get it."

Barney threw the paper on the table.

"Luigi, you’re a rich kid. You’re one of them."

Barney pointed toward the window, in the direction of downtown—the center of power and wealth.

"You could have been that CEO you killed. You could have been sitting in a spacious office, enjoying the air conditioning, the coffee from your secretary, and millions in annual dividends."

"All you had to do was sign a piece of paper to decide whether people like us live or die."